Claimed Series

Filthy

Jack slides the tip of his cock in, and I moan. “You like me to play with your ass, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I hiss, my head bobbing.

“Whose ass is this?”

Sweat slicks my arms and legs, glistening my skin. “Yours.”

He smacks my ass, the pressure delivering a hot sting. I yelp, and realize this is a show of ownership. I curl the sheets in my hands so hard I can barely see any flesh. He removes his cock halfway, giving my insides temporary relief, then slams it back inside, hard and deep.

Maybe it’s the overstimulation, but I feel tendrils of pleasure swirling within me, teasing all my nerve endings. I rock my hips to meet his, in an effort to increase the pressure to an unbearable point for both of us. But he soon probably realizes my plan, for he stops fucking me, disengages from me and switches me around.

Now, my back is on the mattress. He parts my thighs, and I open my legs wide, spread eagling for him. After two near orgasms, I’m frustrated, aroused and confused. For how much longer can he keep this up? Not giving me what I need?

Biting my lip, I tell myself to relax. He needs to be in charge right now, and if giving him what he wants will help us fix our marriage, I’m in. I love this man. A warm sensation invades me from top to bottom, and my eyes search for his.

He puts the thick tip of his cock against my entrance, rubbing it in a circular movement. My pussy tingles, a fresh coat of cream covering my folds. I squirm, but try hard not to lift my hips in a silent hint for him to go faster and fuck me.

My gaze meets his, and shivers of awareness run down my spine. I see resentment, I see regret, but I also see desire in his eyes. Flecks of gold flicker around his green irises, and his expression is hard. He’s lost in thought, so I move a bit, just enough to remind him to move forward. To keep going.

Then, he blinks, out of his trance, and shakes his head. Faster than I could protest, he slides off me and says, “I can’t do this.”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Jack Pov::

“Mr. Harrison called. Twice,” Andrea, my 20-something personal assistant, says, popping her head into my office.

“I’ll call him later.” With a deep breath, I touch my temples to get rid of the pounding headache since I walked away from my marriage, three weeks ago.

“Let me know if you need anything,” she says, with a wink at the end. Damn it. Her skirt gets shorter by the day, and the top button of her blouse seems to magically disappear.

My body stirs at the thought of banging that young piece of ass. Then, guilt washes over me, and I rock back in my chair. What the fuck happened?

Three weeks ago, I couldn’t fuck my wife. I tried, but there was a dark bitterness inside of me that prevented me from forgiving her. I told myself she never really physically cheated on me—but, after being the only child from a divorced couple, I’ve always had that fear of abandonment. Maybe I was the one who left, but she was the one who abandoned our vows first. Why is it so hard for me to get over it?

I’ve been sleeping at a hotel, and started to look into apartments for rent.

The phone rings, and I ignore it. The awards on the wall for top seller in the region almost mock me. Maybe I’ll lose my position if I keep avoiding the world like it owes me something.

My coworker Cal walks in. When he started at the firm, he was my biggest competition, and now, he’s content to be second place. How things change.

“Hey buddy, let’s grab a drink,” he says.

I glance at the computer screen. 4:30pm.

“You need one, and it’s officially happy hour in the bar across the street.”

I flick off my screen, and stand. Why else stay here? To avoid going to the hotel I’ve been staying at? “All right.”

“Atta boy.”

I walk by Andrea and tell her I’m done for the day, and before she answers, I head to the elevator with Cal. We talk about the football playoffs, and by the time we reach the somewhat empty bar across the street, my shoulders relax more. I’m not the opening type, and haven’t really talked about my separation with anyone. Not even with the therapist Ava insisted we saw. I canceled the appointment.

Another stab of regret flushes through me. Every day that goes by I shovel more dirt into the grave of my marriage, even if I shouldn’t. I love her, and leaving her hurts me—but I don’t know how to stay with her if I can’t forgive her.